


Makeover

by HoneySempai



Series: A Cord of Three Strands [7]
Category: Avengers (Marvel Movies), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supersoldier Peggy Carter, Artist Steve Rogers, Asgardian Mishaps, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, F/M, Fanart, Gender Nonconforming Bucky Barnes, Hair Braiding, Jewish Steve Rogers, M/M, Makeup, Multi, Nonbinary Bucky Barnes, Other, Painting, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sensuality, Tattoos, Tigers, Touch, sleep issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-08-31 21:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8594140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneySempai/pseuds/HoneySempai
Summary: Summer, 2014
Bucky needs to work on his self-image. Peggy and Steve help.





	1. Chapter 1

It doesn't bother Peggy that Bucky's watching her, but she does wonder why. 

It first crossed her mind that he might be a bit afraid of her. After all, Steve recited a nearly 70-year-old promise--a marriage vow, essentially--and let himself fall to his possible death in the attempt to make Bucky return to himself. Peggy on the other hand decked Bucky in the face when she found him about 30 feet away from Steve on the shoreline of the Potomac, knocking the already injured and confused man onto his ass, and then pounced on him, holding him until Sam and Natasha were able to rappel down from the helicopter and assist her in restraining him. 

But Peggy's used to the feeling of being watched by captives and suspects like she's a snake waiting to strike. The anger, disdain, smugness, fear, or any combination thereof that she'd normally be able to detect is completely absent from Bucky's expression. And he's not observing her at _every_ conceivable opportunity--Steve gets plenty of watch-time, too--which she is relieved to think means that he's not on guard around her. 

So she started taking note of _when_ , exactly, she catches him focusing on her. At first there's no real pattern to distinguish. His eye is drawn to movement, but so is everyone's; his "red alert" stance in response to loud noises is to be expected; and when she leaves the apartment he stares out the window until he sees her emerge onto the street ("to make sure you haven't disappeared," is how the counselor explained it, after Bucky declined to give his own justification; Peggy doesn't want to think about what long periods of cryostasis have done for Bucky's sense of object permanence) just as often and with as much intensity as when Steve does (none of them are quite ready for Steve and Peggy to leave the Tower at the same time). After comparing Steve's goings-on to her own, it occurs to her that the only noticeable difference between their at-home habits is that Peggy will sit at her vanity for as much time as she's afforded, depending on the day's itinerary, and style her hair and countenance into her own personal brand of flawlessness.

Every day, almost without exception, Bucky sits on the bed behind her and watches her do this.

Now that she's figured that out, she's content to write it off as another aspect of his people-watching. She catches his eye in the mirror as she tucks her chin down and glances up at the same time, a stance she finds useful for French braiding her hair, and she smiles at him. She knows he sees it, because he gives one of his odd smiles back at her.

The uncanny appearance of his expressions isn't unexpected. Any feeling stronger than grim satisfaction for a job completed had been denied Bucky for decades; laughing and smiling are two of the myriad things his body has to be re-conditioned to do. This time, though, there's a questioning look mixed into the smile that's a bit different from other instances where he's been met with something that confuses him. It's fleeting, but Peggy catches it, and she brings her hands down, letting her hair fall loosely out of its plait as she turns around in her swivel chair to face him.

"Everything all right, darling?" She's conscientious about using terms of affection. There are many things that Bucky has to be eased into, but the knowledge that she and Steve love him isn't one of them.

Bucky hesitates before answering.

They had come to the conclusion that the Winter Soldier was the unholy offspring of an orgy between classical conditioning, advanced forms of hypnotism, and targeted brain damage via electroshock, all blended together and placed in a freezer to set. The good news was that the surprisingly drug-free cocktail needed to be administered repeatedly to keep up the effects. "The longer Bucky goes without exposure to Hydra's control methods, the more you'll see him come back to himself," the neurologist said. "But a lot of things are gonna be lost to him. Memories, personality traits, habits...most are gonna come back with time and treatment. But some things might be gone forever. We'll have to wait and see what is in which category." 

Bucky's flirtatious confidence, his ease in conversation, are on the list of things currently out of his reach. Peggy prays--and she knows Steve does, too; they've done it together--that they're not some of the things permanently gone from his life.

"Whatever you want to ask is perfectly fine," she coaxes. "You know I'll answer."

Luckily, Bucky's trust in her declarative statements was one of the things to come back fairly quickly. "Did I ever..." His hands come up, gesturing to his hair. "What you're doing."

"Braiding."

"Braiding," he confirms, and Peggy can tell he's entering the word into his new-old vocabulary.

She shakes her head. "I always took care of my hair myself."

"No, I mean." He makes the same gesture, a little more emphatically. "With my own hair."

She tries not to let on that the question surprises her. Meeting his inquiries with disapproval is to be actively avoided. They've seen the security footage from the bank vault; Bucky's guilty look when Pierce tries first cajoling him into complicity, and then loses patience and orders him wiped, sticks out in Peggy's mind as much as Pierce backhanding Bucky sticks out in Steve's. That Bucky would be _ashamed_ of disappointing that man turns Peggy's stomach. "I never saw you with long hair, so I don't know," she answers. 

She doesn't speculate on the time before she met Bucky. Accidentally implanting or encouraging false memories is also to be avoided.

"Did I want to?"

"That I also don't know," she says matter-of-factly, reigning in her surprise a little tighter. "I don't remember you mentioning it to me." Admitting to not remembering things is _not_ to be avoided. It's apparently comforting for Bucky to know that it's normal to forget a few things.

She watches Bucky chew on her answer with a neutral-to-positive expression on her face. Anything can be a catalyst to recovery, and she allows herself to hope that his observation of her ablutions is jogging his memory of some aspect of himself from before. The Bucky she remembers had always been a little vain about his masculinity and very image-conscious; she can't imagine him, back then, admitting to wanting his hair to look like hers. But an unexpected, though unsurprising upon reflection, consequence of Bucky re-learning himself is the unveiling of secrets he had kept in the past. It's troubling to her and to Steve to know that Bucky had hidden things from them, but they're strangely grateful for the chance to better know and care for him with each small revelation.

"Do you want me to braid your hair _now_?"

"Is that okay?" _Want_ outside of the desire to obey orders and fulfill mission objectives is another skill Bucky is fumbling his way into mastering, but it's a capability he still has, thank God. 

"Of course."

"...Then, yeah. Sure."

"All right then, darling. Come here?" Peggy stands, gesturing down to the now-vacant spot in her swivel chair. Bucky slides off the bed and pads stiffly over to the vanity, sitting down with the sort of heavy elegance reminiscent of the Winter Soldier. She shoves the observation aside--Bucky was always graceful, and wariness of the new situation probably accounts for his stiffness--and gestures for him to spin around so his back is to her.

She's not entirely on board with his long hair; it had been foisted on him by Hydra, after all. But he declined having it cut and they, of course, respected his decision, so now it's her task to learn to like, or at least accept, the new hairstyle. And if exposure therapy would work for Bucky, it could certainly work for her.

She buries her hands in Bucky's hair to start with, allowing herself to take in the softness afforded by the conditioner he uses, before she begins carding her fingers through it. The movement allows the scent of his shampoo to begin wafting through the air; it's a pleasant smell, and she lets herself smile at it. She pushes his hair left and right, undoing and restoring and again undoing his part until she finds it reasonably smoothed out of existence, and then sets to work separating what will become the first strand in the braid from the rest of his hair.

His shoulder-length hair isn't actually long enough to hold a French braid; she quickly concludes. She's only three plaits in, and it's already falling out. She takes her hand away, letting the whole thing droop, and is about to announce the futility of the project when she looks in the mirror again and catches the peaceful look that's taken over Bucky's facial features.

She pauses, considering, and then gently sets her nails on his scalp, delicately scritching her way from his forehead to the nape of his neck, like she might do to Pancakes or Waffles (but definitely not French Toast, who still regards all forms of petting with the utmost suspicion). Bucky doesn't arch his back and stick his butt into the air like two out of the three cats would, but the pleased, closed-eye expression that asks for more such attention is the same.

She combs her fingers through his hair again, tucking and untucking strands behind his ear, making small loops and braids as the whim takes her. He makes soft noises every once in awhile, particularly when she manages to work touching, almost massaging, his neck into her ministrations. She gets nearly a full-blown moan out of him at one point, when she works his ear between her thumb and index finger, which makes her break out into a grin and encourages her to return to attempting a French braid. 

She tries to make it as tight a plait as she can without being forceful about it. There are records of the various degradations Bucky had been subjected to in Hydra's effort to break him, and being dragged around by his hair was one of the early ones. She hopes that's a recollection he never gets back, so she's careful with the pulling and tugging needed. A quick glance around her vanity reminds her of the existence of bobby pins, and Bucky seems to enjoy the gentle scrape of them as she slides them against his head. A good thing, since it ultimately takes several of them to help the hair elastic keep the braid in place, but Peggy is nothing if not multicompetent, and the style comes out looking quite nice if she does say so herself.

She reaches for her bottle of hairspray and catches herself before she uses it, figuring that the sudden spray of a not-that-pleasant smell would startle him. She nudges his shoulder to make him open his eyes and pay attention to her, holds it up for his consideration--he's seen her use it and knows what it's for--and, once she receives permission, starts to apply it. Her hair is very thick, so she uses extra-strength formulas, which she hopes will keep the precarious style in place at least for awhile.

Bucky stays still for a bit, until it's clear that she's not going to return to touching his hair, and turns to look up at her. Bucky has one of those chameleon faces; he's never completely unrecognizable, but he looks like a different person with every change of hat or hairstyle. A French braid leaves the face completely open, and combined with his somewhat blank eyes and washed-out color it makes him look exposed. Vulnerable.

"Let me put some makeup on you," Peggy says, before she thinks about it. "It'll be fun." It'll inject some color and life into his features; it'll make him look more like a person and less like a corporeal ghost. "We don't have to, though, if you don't want."

"No, we can," Bucky says, oddly emphatic. It prickles in the back of Peggy's mind that Bucky was trained to acquiesce or else, but she also recalls how eager-to-please he had been even before The Fall, and persuades herself that this is Bucky, not the Winter Soldier, agreeing to be her guinea pig.

"All right then." She looks over what she has and decides to go for simple. "Close your eyes, darling."

She dabs some primer on a makeup pad, sponges it onto his face, and spreads it out evenly. She does the same thing with foundation; it's a shade darker than she would have chosen for him, but it doesn't look bad at all, she thinks. There's a spot on his chin where the foundation is a little more concentrated and she presses her thumb against it, to smooth it out; the rest of her hand curls up to cup his jaw and she forgets what she's doing for a moment.

Bucky opens his eyes, and Peggy catches her breath.

They had been warned heavily and repeatedly that if they wanted to be a triad again, it would not be for a long time, and Bucky would have to be the one to initiate it. To that end she and Steve have done their best to avoid any sort of contact that could be conceived as even remotely sensual, let alone sexual. The hairdressing a few moments ago had been pushing it, but it was clear that Bucky had welcomed it and so Peggy had excused herself for it. This, this feels like a play at possessiveness; something she would have done back in '44 to let Bucky know that she had plans for him and Steve later. Her stomach clenches, her mind fills up with self-recrimination, and she is tensing up to jerk her hand away when Bucky's catches her wrist.

"I like how you look with makeup on," he says, like it's a little difficult to speak. "I always...I always did."

"Is that right?" Peggy breathes through the lump in her throat, blinking a few times in quick succession. There's a small measure of certainty in Bucky's voice that sends a flood of relief through her.

"Yeah. You looked..." Bucky catches memories like a kid catches fireflies, keeping a tight fist for a moment or two, to make sure they don't escape, before he dares to open his palm and see what he's caught; Peggy knows to be patient while he works up the nerve to cement his past; to give it life and definition and purpose. "You looked powerful."

"I _felt_ powerful," she confirms, trying to sound like she hasn't just been punched in the emotional gut. That was the point of it, after all; to show that she hadn't been so overtaken by the war that she couldn't see an end to it. That she knew there was a life waiting for her after the battle was won, and she was going to be ready for it.

How like Bucky, she realizes with a little surge of elation in her chest, to see right through her like that. How like him to know what he needs but not be able to say it.

"I think you would look good with some mascara, darling."

Bucky lets her go, to fetch two black tubes; he follows her direction to look up and over as she first applies the eyelash primer, and then the actual mascara. He waits for her to finish off with the lash comb, brushing out any imperfections, before he grabs her hand again and presses his lips to the heel of her palm. It lands a bit clumsy and heavy, it lasts a beat too long to be suave, it's like how Steve once described his and Bucky's first kiss as twelve-year-olds and Peggy bites down on her lip to keep tears from spilling over.

"You look marvelous, darling."

He glances up at her, and the little half-grin he gives her is wonderfully, beautifully familiar.

"Thanks, Pegs."

When she leans down to kiss his forehead it's neither a demand nor a request; just an acknowledgment of his courage, and she doesn't need to convince herself to not feel guilty for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little steamy this time around...

Peggy gets a tattoo.

It's a funny story, actually. Between their accelerated metabolisms and respective traumas, sleep is often out of reach for those whom Tony is starting to refer to as "Team America". What sleep can be gotten is usually abruptly ended with night sweats and muffled screams. Thor happened to be around one evening when Steve mentioned it, and had a suggestion: insomnia wasn't unknown in Asgard, and they had their own versions of sleep aids. Given the similarity in physique between Asgardians and the super soldiers, it was worth a shot.

The shot landed for all three of them, after Bucky finally allowed himself to try the small amount Thor brought on his next trip to Earth. Delighted, Thor promised to bring more on his next return. 

Mistakes are also not unheard of in Asgard, apparently, as the potion given to Thor by the apothecary the next time around wasn't the sleeping draught, but a zoomorphic, as they found out one night when Peggy decided to turn in early. It was disconcerting, to say the least, for Steve to later try to climb into bed with a tigress (one of the few times he was glad that Bucky wasn't yet sleeping in the same bed with them). Thankfully, Peggy retained her memories and personality throughout the ordeal, as well as gained the power to communicate telepathically while in tiger form, and when it came time to tell Thor about the mix-up, she insisted that she keep the bottle.

"This could potentially be very useful in the field," she had said. "And it would be _tremendously_ satisfying to be able to literally rip enemy agents apart, besides."

They gave her that.

(Steve tried a sip of the zoomorphic, as well, but it seems that it's linked to whatever the magic decided was the drinker's "essence" or whatever Thor tried to explain, because rather than a tiger, Steve ended up as a zebra. Decidedly less useful for their line of work, though not entirely so; a quick google search revealed zebras to be able to get quite violent in a fight.)

(Bucky declined trying the zoomorphic entirely.)

Thus far Peggy hasn't needed to use the potion in the field, but the whole incident tickled her ("How often can a person claim they're a tiger in the bedroom, and have it be literally true, Steve?"). So it wasn't entirely surprising when she announces that she was planning to get a depiction of the animal inked into her skin.

"You should do it, too, Steve," she had teased. "We'll have matching striped animals."

"Yeah, I'm gonna have to call in Jewish for this one, Pegs," Steve had deadpanned back at her.

Peggy had rolled her eyes in case he was using it as an excuse, but declined to wheedle him further in case he was being sincere. "Bucky? How about you, darling?"

"Steve's the zebra, not me," Bucky had said; humor being something that was coming back to him in small doses.

"Oh well it doesn't have to be a zebra. Or an animal of any sort. It can be anything you want." She had heard about people who suffered physical traumas getting tattoos, as a way to claim ownership over their bodies again; if anyone could have that motive, it was Bucky.

Bucky considered for a moment, before offering up a "Maybe."

His hesitance turned out to be wise. The Erskine serum, and its Zola impersonator, speeds up healing, but also makes the skin more sensitive; as a result, while recipients recover from pain more quickly than civilians, they feel it more acutely in the moment. After going through it herself, Peggy rather thought that being required to sit still for hours while a stranger's machine plunged tiny needles into his skin would not go over well for Bucky, and he agreed with her.

He's nonetheless fascinated with her [tattoo](http://www.tatuajesxd.com/diseno-de-tatuaje-de-un-tigre/), which she chose to have run down her upper back, starting between her shoulder blades. Bucky's counselor has him doing gentle touch therapy, and once it had healed completely Peggy called her tattoo a prime location for Bucky to run his feathers and scarves over.

"I'd have your back," Bucky had protested worriedly.

"That's the point, darling."

It was also a prime location for Steve's kisses. Despite his objection to tattoos on his own person, he's enamored of this one on Peggy's for both its artistic merit--"I really like the line work; it's sharp, but it's curved enough to be...feminine. Elegant. It suits you"--and for the stretch of it when she pulls her hair up. He can start from the tip of the tail and trail down, going past the end of the tattoo and all the way down her spine, or vice versa, running his tongue from the tiger's paws up the back of her neck. Bucky at one point tiptoed up to Steve and Peggy's bedroom, hearing Peggy moaning softly through the crack between the door and its jamb, and was greeted by the sight of Steve paying just that sort of attention to Peggy's tattoo.

Their backs were both turned to him, and he slipped away before they could notice his presence. But it's not the last time he's drawn in by the sound, even though after that first instance, he resolutely stays where he is when he hears it.

He's not there yet.

It's about a month and a half after Peggy gets her tattoo, when Bucky's heard that sound Steve elicits from her at least a dozen times, that he finally works up the nerve to say "I want it."

"Want what, Buck?" Steve asks, looking up from where he's been sketching in the recliner, perpendicular to the couch where Bucky has been sitting quietly. It's just the pair of them; Peggy's been called out on a mission that requires a spy's finesse more than a soldier's brawn.

"What Peggy has."

Bucky's had the sneaking suspicion that Steve was sketching Peggy's back, and it's all but confirmed when Steve closes the sketchbook and shifts on his hips. "A tattoo?"

"Yeah." Among other things.

Steve's lips press into a worried frown. "I thought you didn't like the idea of all the needles."

Bucky tries to shrug nonchalantly, but the way his gaze goes downcast gives him away.

Steve fidgets, hating the disappointed expression on Bucky's face, and casts his mind about for a solution. "There're temporary tattoos; henna, airbrush, that sorta thing. No needles involved. You could get one of those."

Bucky shakes his head. "I'd want something...permanent."

Steve glances him over, sizing him up, and decides to be brave. "I could, if you wanted, I mean, we could get something put on your, your arm."

The arm Hydra had forced onto Bucky had been removed at the hospital as a weapon, as well it should have been; inside it was a tracker; a blade that could be popped out of the inner arm; six canisters of different types of gas with varying degrees of toxicity, to be released through one of the arm's five fingers and palm; and a self-destruct device that looked to be remote controlled. His new arm had been supplied by Tony, after President Ellis's pardon came through, and it's only resemblance to the old one was its strength and silver color.

"Could you paint something on my arm?"

"You'd want me to do it?"

"Wouldn't have to pay if it's you," Bucky says, flashing an old grin.

Steve snorts, but smiles at him. "D'you know what you want?"

Now it's Bucky's turn to size Steve up and gather the courage. "Your shield."

Steve blinks. "Really? My shield?" Bucky nods. "How come that?"

Bucky shrugs tightly. "Dimly recall a saying about wearin' your heart on your sleeve." Steve makes a soft, almost ragged noise, and Bucky's right hand floats up to his left shoulder, tracing over the phantom red star that had been there before. "I want people to know where my loyalties lie."

That's the Bucky that Steve knows, the kid who doggedly and vocally stuck by Steve's side even if it meant losing the chance to make other friends, or catching whatever Steve had come down with; the man who passed up an honorable discharge home to his family so he could follow Steve to his own ruin. It elates and eviscerates him at the same time, and he whispers "Okay then" while he can still talk.

Steve remembers how to properly paint metal from a few WPA projects he was part of back in the 30s, and after getting the okay he raids Tony's supplies for primer, acrylic paint, and a thin sheaf of plastic. Bucky changes into a crappy, expendable old tank top and slips into Steve and Peggy's bedroom while Steve is busy cutting out a stencil from the plastic, sitting at Peggy's vanity and studying himself in the mirror.

Peggy's allowed him to use her makeup whenever he wants, and he's watched her enough to pick up on her routine. Primer, to start things off. Peach-colored concealer, to hide dark circles. He almost goes for the sugar scrub, to make his lips soft, but the thought that he won't be kissing Steve slaps him in the face, and he hastily moves on. More concealer, because the purple under his eyes refuses to go away. Foundation, so everything lays evenly. More concealer; this is the best it's going to get. Bronzer, blended with blush, so he doesn't look so sallow. Mascara, because people liked his eyes, once. Powder to set. Everything perfect. He can do something nice, after all.

"You ready?"

"Guess so."

Steve's converted one of the rooms in their suite into a studio and that's where he takes Bucky. There's only one chair, since Steve is the only one who uses the room, so Steve bids Bucky take it and kneels next to him, straightened up on his knees so he's eye-level with Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky keeps himself from squirming when Steve runs a dry rag over his shoulder, wiping away any dust that might have accumulated, but can't help but fidget when Steve presses the stencil against the metal and begins brushing on the primer.

"Y'okay?"

"Tickles."

Steve considers the brush for a moment, and then flicks it around so the point of the handle can poke the side of Bucky's nose. Bucky stops himself from batting the brush away, afraid of smacking it clear across the room, and instead makes a face at Steve.

"Change your mind?"

"Too late to back out now. I'll hold still."

"I'll be as...non-ticklish with it as I can. Gotta warn you though, there's two coats of the primer and two more of the paint."

"I can take it."

Steve pauses, and something in his eyes goes sad. "I know you can."

True to his word Steve tries applying different pressures until he finds one that doesn't make Bucky shift around so much (maybe Tony can upgrade the arm at some point to make it slightly less sensitive). To distract him a little when the second coat of primer goes on, Steve starts talking; it's raining out so Steve decides to tell him about the hurricane in '38, when they went out to the tent city in Red Hook ("You remember Red Hook? My old apartment?" "A little. It was the...third floor, right?") to make sure everyone had found high ground. The rain was bad but the wind was worse, and Steve had been struggling to stay on his feet when an errant tent pole clocked him in the head.

"You were little then," Bucky says.

"Yep. This was a couple years before the war. So it knocked me out cold. Woke up at your parents' house with the worst concussion I've ever had."

"I carried you home." He doesn't quite recall the actual events, but it makes the most sense, and the vaguely sick, vaguely familiar feeling in his gut at the thought of Steve hurt paints enough of a picture.

"You did. And I spent the next two days throwing up. My head hurt for _weeks_ afterwards. Everything got worse; the asthma, the nerve trouble. You wouldn't let me leave the house for two months, practically."

"Shouldn't've let you go out in the first place."

Steve snorts as he carefully draws the stencil away so it won't smudge the primer. "You were pretty gung-ho about it, actually. It was only after that, that you started motherhenning me."

"'Cause I had to." Bucky frowns. "Right?"

"Yeah," Steve says, a little huskily. "Yeah, my mother had already passed by then. So you took it upon yourself to take care of me in her place." He clears his throat. "It was very annoying, just so you know."

"Well excuse me for tryin' to keep your punk ass alive."

Bucky notes with pride that this is the first time since coming back that he's made Steve actually laugh; give off something loud and spontaneous and unmeasured.

They pop into the kitchen while the second coat of primer dries. Instincts and interests have come back to Bucky quicker than images, the impulse to cook being one; he's careful not to brush up against anything while he dumps two boxes of this weird but tasty pasta made out of beans into a pot to boil; for them, split in half, the equivalent of a protein bar each. Peggy comes back a little while after they've finished their snack and left their plates on the table with the vague plan to put them in the dishwasher later. 

"Oh sure, don't leave any for me."

"There's another box," Steve says offhandedly, and takes the smack upside the head he knows is coming rather than duck and risk messing up the paint job. "How was it?"

"Tigerless, therefore disappointing. What's going on here?"

"Getting a tattoo," Bucky answers. "Sort of."

"Of the shield?" It's starting to take form underneath Steve's paintbrush. "That's awfully self-aggrandizing, Steve."

"Bucky's idea."

"That so?" Bucky nods. "You don't have to flatter him, you know. We're keeping you no matter what."

Bucky glances up at her with a face that's trying to keep up the playful mood but looks far too grateful to be part of the banter. She turns on her heel, announcing that she's going to fix herself a snack, and strides out with a little more urgency than her intention would normally warrant. When she comes back about a half hour later her makeup has been obviously refreshed.

"How's it going?"

"Just about to put the last coat on," Steve says. 

"May I? Not to interrupt the artist at work, but I'd like to be involved...if that's okay," she directs at Bucky. 

"Sure," Bucky says, trying to smile extra earnestly at her, and to stay very still as she crowds in next to Steve and takes the paintbrush, this one dipped in red paint, from him. She's unused to painting and handles the brush a tad clumsily; Steve drapes his free hand, the other still holding the stencil, over hers to help smooth the paint out into an even coat. She murmurs half-heartedly that she's got the hang of it by the time they switch to the white paint, but Steve doesn't take his hand away and she doesn't try to insist that he do. 

When they switch to the blue paint, Bucky's flesh hand drifts over, palm settling atop the back of Steve's hand, his thumb hooking around to rest against Peggy's inner wrist. Both of them look up at him, not quite questioning so much as waiting. 

"I wanna be part of this, too," Bucky croaks out. 

Peggy chews on her bottom lip, eyes starting to shine again. Steve's face doesn't change, but Bucky can feel his grip on the brush tighten. They lapse back into quiet, their hands bobbing up and down, back and forth as they dab paint into the five rounded triangles surrounding the center star, until Steve gives the stencil a little tug, signaling that they're finished. 

"Go look," Steve encourages, and Bucky heads for the bathroom mirror. Aside from the thinnest of silver lines, where the stencil had prevented paint from going, it's otherwise perfectly reminiscent of the shield. A simple enough design by itself, but two minutes later he's still enthralled with it, turning ever so slightly to see it at different angles with slightly different lighting. 

"Don't touch it," Steve says from behind him, when his hand floats up to brush his fingers over it. "You should try not to touch it for two or three days, to protect the paint. So no sleeping on it."

Bucky nods. "Got it."

"You know, if..." Peggy says from beside Steve, "if...if you were to, say, sleep between us tonight, we could...sandwich you, a bit. Keep you from turning over in your sleep. If you think that's a good idea."

Bucky stares at her and she meets his gaze unwaveringly, though her fingers fuss with each other where they meet near her waist. He glances over at Steve, whose arms are folded as he leans heavily against the door frame; unlike Peggy his eyes are trained somewhere on the floor. 

"What are you thinking?" Steve asks, only just barely looking up, after few moment of silence passes between them.

Bucky shifts his weight between his feet, his stomach clenched, his chest tight. He tilts his head back, to ease the knot in his threat, and takes a deep breath once he's able.

"I'm thinking...I'm thinkin' I remember Peggy is a blanket hog."

Peggy gives a mock-gasp of indignation. "I am not!"

"She absolutely is," Steve stage-whispers, earning himself a smack in the stomach.

Peggy sticks her tongue out at Bucky and turns, flouncing away with her hands thrown up by her shoulders; he grins broadly at the back of her head, sending a pleased look at Steve. Steve sends it back, but when Bucky moves to follow her out of the room Steve stretches his arm out, catching Bucky gently by the stomach.

"You sure about this, Buck?"

Steve's face is a little pink, his expression a mess of fears and wants, and Bucky softens his features into something reassuring.

"Can't recall, obviously, but I've probably never been more sure of anything in my life."

Steve exhales, and nods; his hands come up, clasping over where Bucky's shoulder meets his neck, carefully avoiding the paint. Bucky tilts his head, resting it against Steve's collar bone, and as Steve presses a kiss, simple and inelegant and fierce, against Bucky's hair, he thinks that for the first time since waking up, he's looking forward to going back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "gentle touch" therapy is actually ganked from an episode of Supernanny, where a violent child was encouraged to run soft objects like feathers down his mother's arms so he'd start to learn impulse control, and to begin associating touch with love and gentleness rather than smacking the crap out of his mom.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The absolutely amazing [koreanrage](http://koreanrage.tumblr.com/) drew this gorgeous rendition of Chapter 1. I was at work when I saw it and had I super strength I would have flipped the table, I was so excited. Go give her some love and a follow! Quality WWIII, Stuggy, and some Stucky abound.

[ ](http://s347.photobucket.com/user/sweethoneysempai/media/IMG_2344_zpsdlzm7zqa.png.html)


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